Then there came into her head the
memory of the roof of the tower, where she had once been as a little
girl. She would be in the air there, she would be able to breathe, to
get rid of this feverishness. With the unhappy pleasure of a spoiled
child taking its revenge, she took care to leave her bedroom door open,
so that her maid would wonder where she was, and perhaps be anxious, and
make them anxious. Slipping through the moonlit picture gallery on
to the landing, outside her father's sanctum, whence rose the stone
staircase leading to the roof, she began to mount. She was breathless
when, after that unending flight of stairs she emerged on to the roof at
the extreme northern end of the big house, where, below her, was a sheer
drop of a hundred feet. At first she stood, a little giddy, grasping the
rail that ran round that garden of lead, still absorbed in her brooding,
rebellious thoughts. Gradually she lost consciousness of everything save
the scene before her. High above all neighbouring houses, she was almost
appalled by the majesty of what she saw. This night-clothed city, so
remote and dark, so white-gleaming and alive, on whose purple hills and
valleys grew such myriad golden flowers of light, from whose heart came
this deep incessant murmur--could it possibly be the same city through
which she had been walking that very day! From its sleeping body
the supreme wistful spirit had emerged in dark loveliness, and was
low-flying down there, tempting her.
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